Writers of GLP: post the best poem you have ever written! [CONTEST for 1 month full subscription] ~1 day left

A day in the life of GLP;
Owned by the Trump hating Trinity
ACs, shills and trolls alike
All come together in the vicinity

Free dollar fiddy you might get paid
For your fake agendas you so poorly laid
Libtard hell, conservatives swell
Blowing’ up the main page like a hand grenade

Some arrive for the GLP effect
Some for the doomporn that keep them erect
Uncle intel lies that we love to dissect
All on the lists the gubmint collect

To all I raise a glass of wine
Even if I disagree with every swine
Can’t help but shit post these thoughts of mine
Now bump me up for a glorious PINE

If this post doesn't get any submissions I will declare myself the winner using this simple limerick submission:

There was a poetry contest on godlike
The trolls and ACs never wrote write
They were shills most the time
And barely could rhyme
Which is all that they thought poetry was like because they were uncreative souls that get all of their ideas from George Soros talking points and from the Democratic Party who feeds them MSNBC they watch all night.

i'm bumping this with another poem

Achilles' Next-to-Last Stand

Dawnie is one of the regulars
at Mr. Lucky's,
a dive-bar down
on Mooney Pond Road,
a one-lane blacktop
that runs along
the southside of nowhere
in particular.

"Hey, Dawn-zilla!"
I shout,
"You got my money, bitch?"
She shakes her head
but buys me a beer
and sends it my way.
I gulp it down.
"You still owe me,"
I call across the bar.
She blows me a kiss and
I turn back to my drink.

Now, the guy standing next to old Dawnie,
he's there scowling at me.
"And you tell Quasimodo
to mind his own
business,"
I say, swirling
the ice in my whiskey
as I bring it to my lips.
"It ain't easy being King," I say on the side
to the bartender
and then I pour it down my throat.

I put the glass on the bar
and feel a tap on my shoulder.

I look up.

It's Dawnie's pal,
the hunchbacked
motherfucker,
aka
the fat-chick hunter.

"Whatcha want?" I ask.

"I don't like you," he says.

"That's too bad," I say,
"because your mom,
she loves me.
Would you like to
step outside,
son?"

"Right now!" he barks, standing up.

"When I finish my drink!"
I bark back.
And then I knock it down
and head out
for the door.

I walk out to the parking lot
and there he is,
jumping up and down,
moving his
feet around,
loosening up.

Getting ready.

"Happy Hour is about to start, son," I say,
"so let's make this quick."

I crack my knuckles
and roll up my sleeves,
show him my fists,
and then

overhand-roundhouse-uppercut-hook
slashing ring flashing out shredding skin
unzipping forehead
spurting—

blood.

My blood.

"You fuck!" I scream,
as the blood
spills
down
my face
into
my cupped hands.

Quasimodo closes in,
coiling to strike
what will surely be
the killing blow:

My balls pull up into my belly.
I close my eyes,
grit my teeth,
and wait
for the flash
and the pain.

But
instead
I hear
a howl,
a hooting
howl,
something
like
the hunting cry
of a hawk.

I open my eyes
and see
Big Mike,
one of my drinking buddies,
come flying from out of nowhere
in particular
like some sort of one-man mounted white-trash cavalry,
hooting and whistling as he joins the charge.

Big Mike and Quasimodo fight
briefly,
but it is no match:
Big Mike beats
the hunchback down
to the asphalt.

"That's right!" I scream.
"How you like it?" I say,
as I do the taunter’s dance around
the fallen hunchback.

"How you like it now?" I say,
"how you like it now?” I say,
challenging him to get up.
"That's what you get
for fucking with me!"

Big Mike puts his
big arm around my shoulders
and shuffles me back into the bar.

"Are you OK, Kid?" Big Mike asks.
I nod
and I
run my
bloody hands
over my bloody face
and my bloody bald head,
the blood
mixing with sweat,
streaming
down
my cheeks
over
my lips
past
my chin
onto
my clothes.

The regulars gather and disperse.
Drinks go around
and around.

I look at myself in the
mirror on the wall
behind the bar:

I am
as a warrior
back from battle,
a hunter
fresh from the kill,
a brawler
yet unbowed.

I am
a bloody mess.

"That's what you get,"
I say,
"that's what you get,"
I keep saying
over
and over
to no one
in particular.

Away down a yonder
Beyond the oceans blue
Lives a mighty creature
A dragon they call Sue

Away done a yonder
Beyond the oceans blue
Lives a mighty creature
For a name…they call him Sue

Sue the mighty dragon
Lives beyond the oceans blue
Sue the mighty dragon
Can fly beyond the moon

Sue the mighty dragon
Lives beyond the oceans blue
Sue the mighty dragon
Can swim for miles too

Sue the mighty dragon
Lives beyond the oceans blue
Sue the mighty dragon
Guardian for me and you

You're already upgraded, so why the hate?

Pissy the Tree

Quit pissing, Pissy.
Pissy the Tree.

https://imgur.com/4qimhcn

I thought I lost this poem but luckily it MEANT to be found this time that I am looking for it.
I appreciate this thread to share my whimsical simple thoughts.

This one I wrote is emotion-driven as I walked out from my kindest Oncologist, going home to my waiting family with the news that broke my heart 4 lovely years ago.

TILL THEN

Till Then...
It was the dreaded news
That stilled my heart
Ti's the moment of longing
To recapture the happy memories lost
Took the long ride home
Eyes moist with tears
Do I deserve the wretched pain
In silence, heart-stirring
Counting the loved ones to share
My stories and silliness and all
My bleeding heart is breaking
Trust in glory to fill my soul
Staring to a fulfilled life, or nothing will.
Till then...
I feel scared, hug me, whisper everything
Is going to be alright.
Till then...
I'll see you soon.

4 years since, thank you, Lord. I am home. I FEEL LOVED.

Let's see the poetry talent of GLP!

There really are no rules other than your submission must be a poem (links to poem threads don't count: you have to post the poem. I can't upgrade already upgraded members), and you must have an account to win otherwise I can't upgrade you.

I will count the number of unique bumps your poem receives by the end of the contest (1 week from now), and the highest bump count on your submission makes you the winner.

Yes, even if your poem is the most hated, but has the most bumps, you win!

Simple as that.

Let's see the poetry talent of GLP!

There really are no rules other than your submission must be a poem (links to poem threads don't count: you have to post the poem. I can't upgrade already upgraded members), and you must have an account to win otherwise I can't upgrade you.

I will count the number of unique bumps your poem receives by the end of the contest (1 week from now), and the highest bump count on your submission makes you the winner.

Yes, even if your poem is the most hated, but has the most bumps, you win!

Simple as that.

My Pop and the Great Mickey Mantle

It was the last game
of my first year
of Little League
and I hadn't had a
single
base
hit.
Not one.
I'd never even
put the ball
in play.

My father couldn't understand
how I couldn't make contact.

Three times a week he'd take me
to the batting cage
and feed in the quarters,
watch and critique my form,
adjust my stance,
evaluate my performance,
and I would make good contact—
spray the ball to all fields.
He would boast to all within earshot
about how his seven-year-old son
was going to be
the next Mickey Mantle.
He'd even give advice
to other dads
about their sons.

My father made friends
with all the other Little League dads
but now it was the last game of the year;
somewhere around mid-season
my dad stopped hanging around with
the other dads and would stand
off to the side somewhere alone and
keep score.

It was the last inning in the last game,
my last at-bat in a losing season,
and naturally, we were losing.
The first pitch looked good
so I was first-pitch swinging
and

crack!

the bat caught the ball on its
sweet-spot.

The ball rocketed straight
up;
my father jumped
up,
shouted, “Hey!”
and the ball kept
climbing
and climbing
so high
it was hard to see
against the cloudy sky.

But the catcher settled under it
and waited
until the ball

poofed

into his mitt.

“That,”
my father said, as we drove towards home,
“was a major-league pop-out.”
“A quarter-inch up and you would have hit it out
of Yankee Stadium.”

“You think so?” I said.

“I know so,” he said. “You just missed.”
He looked as happy as I'd ever seen him
as he grabbed the ball cap off my head and rumpled my hair.
“My kid,” he said more to himself than to me,
“the next Mickey Mantle.”